Morning, Sheriff Swan
by charliethedreamer
Summary: Captain Swan AU: For day four of captain swan AU week: cursed!Killian. Killian was sent along the curse with everyone else, and Emma Swan, the new sheriff, is the only thing that feels right. Just a one chapter thing.


_A/N: Cursed!Killian for CS AU Week. Yayyyyyyyy!_

* * *

She's angry when he first sees her – or at least, she definitely _looks _it.

She looks like a lot of things, though – so it's hard to tell what _exactly _draws Killian too her. Whether it be the blazing way her green eyes _burn _– she's not just angry, he decides, she's bloody _furious _– or the vest top that clings to her or the jeans that to the same or the way her hair – a windswept chaos of _gold _– is blowing behind her and she looks hot and sweaty and flushed and –

Or maybe it's the chainsaw she's carrying.

Maybe he's always had a thing for danger.

Or maybe it's the way that when she bumps in to him as she seethes her way down Main Street (it was _her _who wasn't watching her step, and yet _her _who ends up snapping _Look where you're going_), he suddenly feels strange – like he's forgotten something very _very _big.

.

It doesn't take long – given Emma's practice at quick adaptation – to catch on to the fundamental principles of Storybrooke, and just a week after her arrival she has a list of things she knows for sure about her new place of residence.

Grannie's makes the best – well – _everything. _Hot chocolate, grilled cheese – there's little Emma _wouldn't _order from that menu.

Mary Margaret Blanchard gives her cause to rethink her previously made decision to not involve herself with other women.

Emma quite often wishes she could do to Regina Mills what she did to Regina Mills' tree (if it weren't for her son, of course).

If she was going to trust anyone in this town – which she's sort of trying not to – she would definitely _not _trust Mr Gold (the lack of a first name certainly isn't helping).

And lastly – Killian Jones (or Captain Hook as Henry seems to think; must be the hand) is quite possibly the most annoying flirt she's ever met – despite being one of the most attractive, too.

If it's not the way he first introduces himself ("Killian Jones – the man you crashed into on Main Street the other day, and I must say – you _did _look good with that chainsaw") it's the way his eyes find hers across the diner, the way he makes stupid remarks (that do _not _have her stifling a laugh, they do _not_) from behind the bars of the jail cell at the station (when will this idiot learn that he _cannot keep stealing boats_) and if it wasn't for his tenacity, she would quite gladly avoid him.

Maybe she would anyway, if it wasn't for that other thing – the one that makes her stomach twist and his behaviour all the more confusing.

He's really good with Henry.

.

The first time he sees her and she's smiling (and actually smiling – not those concealed little grins from across the station) he can't even really see it. Too busy keeping his eyes on the camera as Graham fiddles with it, bloody mug shots taking _far _too long.

"Jesus, Graham – what are you all technology starved down here?" Emma says, feet on the desk as she picks at a grilled cheese (her top is hanging low – the chains around her neck drawing his attention there and _fuck _– he needs to keep his eyes on the camera), tone coloured with amusement and he can tell from the corner of his eye that she's _smiling _and _bloody hell, Jones, get a grip._

"No – we're not, Swan," Killian tells her. "Graham here just sucks, is all."

"Mm – well it looks like we agree on something for once." Emma says whilst his friend sneers at him in a jovial way – he looks just short of sticking out his tongue – and then goes back to the camera, muttering something about the _bloody thing being broken._

"I'd say we agree on a lot of things, love," Killian argues. "You're just pretending you don't like me."

"I'm not _pretending." _She drawls in a pointed manner, licking a stripe of cheese from her thumb.

"Mm – we'll see."

He's sure she's about to snap something in response – he's counting on it, in fact, craving more of their power-play type conversation that seems all she's willing to engage in – but then an _aha _from Graham cuts her short and then the camera goes off – several times in fact (_bloody camera – bloody useless friend_) and Killian winces with the suddenness.

When his pictures come out ("Not my _best_," he says as Graham puts them with the others) and Graham passes them to Emma, something strange happens – and it has his heartstrings pulling and that same utterly bewildering sensation tumbling back – Emma laughs.

He thinks that if it wasn't coloured with her usual sarcasm, if it was light and happy, then _god _it would be a beautiful laugh.

.

He's good at darts – she'll give him that.

They both are, Graham too.

Although, not as good as her, and she gets _great _satisfaction out of showing them up – and out of the drinks they consequently owe her.

"You know, love, you don't have to beat me at darts for me to buy you a drink." Killian's voice is low and rumbling as he slides the money over to Ruby.

"I don't let guys buy me drinks," she tells him.

"No – you just hustle them at darts and then they owe you them."

She turns to him, eyebrows raised as she gives him an affronted look. "I did not _hustle _you. You should have _known _I'd be good."

(She doesn't mean for it to sound flirty – not at all. That just sort of…_happens._)

"Mm – I suppose I should have," He replies – close to her ear and she can _feel _him, air around them suddenly humming and she taps her fingers against the worktop, trying to dispel some of the energy – the electricity – that works is way from her head to the hairs on the back of her neck to the tips of her fingertips, just _buzzing _with his proximity and _fuck –_

She's grateful when her drink shows up (too grateful, she should be able to keep her emotions in check, god dammit) and she can spin away, walking over to stand with Graham (good – nice, _safe _Graham), although not without the feel of his eyes boring into the back of her skull.

.

There are no words when he next sees her.

No innuendos falling from his lips, no cheeky remarks or attempts at making her smile.

No words for how they're both feeling – _he was too young, their friend, Graham, he was too young – _just a silence only perturbed by the rustle of leaves as a breeze sweeps through the grave yard.

He stands with her – finds himself unable not to. Stands with her and her son and those others close to Graham as the service is carried out, grim mood clinging to every corner of the place and it sticks around, moving with them like a fog as they walk away from the newly placed headstone.

There are no words – not even a "that was a lovely service" as she walks in front with her son.

What washes over him then – leaving with an ache in his stomach and a weariness to his step – watching her walk away, head bowed, face pointedly blank –is a feeling that goes beyond any prior.

He no longer wants to just kiss her and take her and everything he's wanted before (drunken hook-ups that seemed almost systematic, like a crazed loop he couldn't tear himself away from): he wants his arm around her shoulder and to whisper comfort in her ear, he wants to wipe the tears she's stubbornly refused to let fall and he wants to hold her – to hold her until the aches of _today _and the past (the one she tries so desperately to cover) are _gone._

He wants to clear this fog in his mind that seems constantly _there _– to work out why he feels like he's forgotten something _all the time. _He wants to know why it started the moment she got to town.

He wants this crap – this stuck in a rut lifestyle him and everyone seems to be living – to just _end. _

Maybe the lad is right – maybe Emma Swan, as little as he believes in such _magic, _really is the saviour.

(Or maybe he's just hoping she'll be his.)

.

She's sitting at the counter, quietly sipping her drink (hoping it will numb the sensations that run riot in her mind, hoping it will make her forget about Graham and kissing and _I remember _and _oh god – _) when the door to Grannie's is pushed open, the way the bell rings cheerily highlighting the grim mood that grips the diner.

She knows it's him before she even sees – knows by his footsteps and the way the tension thickens tenfold.

She doesn't look up as he slips into the stool beside her, only takes another sip from her drink as he steps up on the bar of his stool, leaning across to grab his own from behind the counter.

There's a moment of stuttering silence – the sound of his drink against his glass the only thing audible other than their breathing – and then she's the one to break it.

"Captain Morgan," she observes in a small voice. "Should have known you liked rum." She says it quietly, and he only hums in response. She supposes he knows what she's talking about, no doubt Henry's informed him of his status as _Captain Hook. _

"Did he say anything to you?" Killian asks – voice just about breaking and she's damned if it doesn't make her breath hitch in her throat – "Graham – I – he was saying things before, stuff about when me and him first met and – I don't know – he seemed worked up at something – did he mention anything to you?"

She meets his eyes for a brief second (they're wide and he looks _lost _and she sees a broken past, one usually covered with charm and flirtation – one like the one she harbours) and then gulps, nodding and turning back to her drink. "He said…he said he remembered."

"What does that mean?" he asks and she can only shake her head.

"I haven't a clue."

Her own voice cracks slightly at that – memories flying back and it _stings – _and then slowly, tentatively, his fingers brush against hers from where they rest atop the counter, and she turns her hand over, entwining it with his and when he squeezes it – eyes trained forward and she can almost hear him gulp – she feels some of that pain ease itself away.

.

Everything – from the way the clock's started working to the dreams that he can never _quite _remember – feels wrong.

Killian no longer just feels like he's living a dead-end life – a life laid out for him, one he never bothered to question (why hasn't he questioned it? It's always been questionable – the way no one leaves this town and no one comes) – he feels like he's living a lie.

The only thing that feels real – where he finally feels like he's getting close to the _truth _– is _her_.

.

She's leaving.

She can't do it – she can't do this to her son, she can't keep twisting his world and tearing him with whatever is going on with her and Regina. His mother.

She never had a place in his life – not after she gave him up. She's undeserving, unworthy and if she can't be his mother, what reason does she _have _to stay?

She ignores that stray thought that drifts unbidden – _Killian _– stomping down on it and twisting it _hard _because _no, _nothing can happen with him. It doesn't matter if he's not as much of a jerk as he was when they first met – if he's actually funny and sometimes sincere and they share something she's never really had before – _understanding. _

No – she's leaving. If she ever thought she could actually _deal _with all of this – deal with having a son (and only bringing him disruption) bringing or August (and Henry) thinking she's the saviour or blue eyes and dark hair and the man who makes her want to trust – then she was wrong. She was wrong – and know she knows. Knows she can't stay.

The door to the apartment swings open then – Henry in her room, not speaking to her (why can't he _see, see _that she's doing this for him, see that it _hurts her too_) – Killian practically storming in and _oh lord help her _because she _really _can't see him now.

Not when the very thought of him – hand entwined with her on the countertop, his presence at the station (and not behind bars) and talking to Henry and making her smile in spite of herself – makes her question this whole fucking thing.

"Is it true?" he demands without so much as a hello, tone raw and disbelieving (_god_). "Are you – are you leaving town?"

"Yes," she says, trying to keep her voice as flat as possible, trying to _not _think about what she'd miss of him if – no, _when _she leaves. She doesn't dare look at him, just continues flinging clothes into her cardboard box.

"Why?"

(His tone has a desperate edge that has the doubled effect of making her want to stay (forever) and run as far as she can.)

"For Henry. Me and Regina – this argument we have, this _war, _it has to end, for his sake."

She moves away from him, going over to the door and picking up her shoes and leaving him stood stock still.

"But – you can't leave, you're sheriff, we need you here."

She shakes her head – no one needs her (and she needs no one) moving back towards him to chuck her boots into the cardboard box.

"We do," he insists, moving over to her, invading her personal space. "Mary Margaret needs you, Henry needs you – " She feels his hand – fingers rough and yet _soft _and coaxing – on the side of her face, thumb brushing her jaw as he turns her head towards him so she can't look away.

His eyes are blue – so very, _very _blue and he's so close she can see the dark rim to his iris's and the storm that brews within and she sees everything from loss to heartbreak to _herself _and –

"_I _need you." It's spoken with a stuttering sincerity – one that makes her heart thump in her chest and he takes another step towards her, breath hitching and she wants to deny it – to tell her and him that he _doesn't _need her – that she doesn't need him. His eyes slip shut, voice trembling slightly as he lowers it to a whisper. "Fuck – Emma – please don't go."

His hand slides to the back of her head – all those pent up feelings rising to the surface and she wants to close the distance (she always does) but she _can't. _

"What reason do I have to stay?" She whispers. "If I'm not Henry's mother then why – "

She's cut off by him as he surges forward, lips crushing into hers, colliding into a searing kiss what she was saying is gone – lost in the movement of his lips against hers, lost in the way they both inhale, her hands finding his jacket as she tugs him _closer _– warmth flooding her, body buzzing with this _energy _as he tugs on her top lip, causing her to sway towards him before they draw apart, all heavy breaths and rubbing noses.

"Stay," he breathes, hand coming away from where it'd tangled in her hair, moving down so he can rub his thumb over her chin. She's about to stay something – maybe another insistence that she can't (another denial that he gives her a reason to do just that) – but then suddenly he winces, eyes clamping shut as his hand falls from her face, flying to his forehead.

When he opens his eyes he's breathing even harder and staring at her like she's grown another head. He lifts his other arm slowly – his bad arm – looking at the stump with a sudden recognition. She lets her hands fall away from where they're curled around his jacket, and takes as much of a step back as she can before she bumps into the counter.

"Killian, what – "

"I remember," He whispers.

"Remember what?" she asks and if her voice is shaking with fear – _Graham, Graham, Graham _– then so be it because she _is _scared and –

"Mom?" Henry's voice from the stairs has her spinning around to where he stands, frown creasing his forehead as he examines the turnover Regina gave him – the one that, by the looks of it, has a bite missing. "Where did you get this?"

"Your mom gave it to me…"

But the words die on her lips as her son suddenly collapses, sinking down the few final steps and onto the floor.

"Henry?" She says urgently, collapsing onto the floor beside him, tapping him and shaking him. "Call an ambulance," she tells Killian – heated kisses and _I remember _suddenly forgotten because _Henry _– and he obliges.

She hears nothing but her heart beating a staccato against her ribs throughout the entire journey, her son's hand getting colder and colder in her iron grip.

.

"I love you, Henry," she whispers, tears burning their way down his cheeks. She wants to say more – to tell him she's _sorry_, sorry she didn't believe him when he was _right, _so very _right _– about all of it.

The curse and Regina and her parents and her being the saviour – and yet she failed him. She fought a dragon (_a dragon_) for nothing.

There's a kiss to his forehead – shaky and tearstained and he's just _gone _– and then a sudden ripple of warmth and colour –

And then there's just him – her son, _alive. _

She doesn't even register as Regina runs off, or as Killian departs silently afterwards, too busy clinging to her son, marvelling in this thing called _magic. _

.

He's sitting by the docks when she finds him. Boats rocking gently in the quietly dipping and rising waters – this part of town still so decidedly sleepy – as if everyone _hasn't _just been yanked form the grips of a curse, memories restored and it's all such a massive _shit storm._

(And parents – she has fucking _parents _and how does she even begin to process that?!)

Killian looks up as she moves round the bench, sitting herself down and looking at him – tracing the blue eyes and scruff lined jaw and the flannel and the jeans – she tries her hardest to see him for what he is (Captain freaking _Hook_) and she reckons if it wasn't for what he holds in his hand – the metal namesake itself – she would dispute the notion completely.

"You left," she says simply, not bothering to hide the hurt in her voice because he left – saw her through the whole thing; the ambulance ride and the dragon fighting, saw her son come back and then – then he was gone.

"Aye," he replies without looking at her, something sharp and like _pain _flashing hot in his eyes before he locks down on it and it's gone.

"You – you kissed me…you told me to stay…and then I looked around for you and…you were gone."

"It was bad form," he says. "I'm sorry."

But then he pushes off the bench, moving to leave – surprise, surprise, she's being left again – and she stares at him with incredulity. When he stands up fully – muscles tensed, whole body stiff with awkwardness and a frigid pain – she stands too.

"Where are you going?" She demands. She wants to talk to him, and here he is – walking away from her, being _cold _with her.

He mutters something – bitter and twisted – as he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking over the waters.

"What was that?"

"Somewhere I belong," he says, louder, casting her a look from over his shoulder. The statement cuts deep and she just about cringes at the understanding that lingers there. She's always wanted to belong, too.

"And where is that?" She asks, moving over to stand next to him.

"Not – not here – not with you." His voice almost breaks as he says it – something self-deprecating about the way he almost winces – and then he backs away, walking off in the other direction.

"Oh, is that it?" she calls after him. "Am I suddenly not good enough for you?" She tries to hide the way that hurts amongst the anger laced throughout her tone.

He sighs heavily, turning round. "Since when do you even care, Swan? I've been trying to get you to trust me this whole bloody time and yet – all you've done is push me away."

She opens her mouth to say something – a snappy retort or bitter quip, maybe – but then closes it again, the resignation in his voice striking her deep and she no longer feels like he's leaving her; she feels like he's giving up.

"I – I thought we got to more than that, Killian. I thought you were my friend – I thought that when I was meeting my god damn parents and having them hug me like I was coming home and when the whole town was losing its shit and everything was such a _mess _that you would _be there_." She lowers her voice. "I thought that when you kissed me – you – you meant something by it."

He grimaces at her words, scrubbing at the back of his head with his hands and when he speaks again it's with a burning frustration.

"Of course I meant something by it, Emma – _god_ – but do you think that it's _easy _for me to see all those people? You and your parents and everyone they're all _heroes _and me – I – I'm _Captain Hook _– I worked for Regina once, Gold killed my love – I was plotting to kill _him._" He shakes his head. "When I was cursed it was fine – I was just _Killian Jones, _but now…now I'm a pirate." (He practically spits the word, and then exhales heavily. "You're all heroes and I'm a villain."

She inhales shakily – her whole _being _wavering with emotion because she was never not good enough for him, he just didn't deem himself good enough for her.

"You – you think I care about that?" She finds tears pricking in the back of her eyes (stupid, _stupid) _and she takes a few steps forward. "I don't care who you are – or were. I just found my parents and I don't even know how to feel. I share a son with the Evil Queen and apparently I'm a princess – I don't care if you're Captain Hook or freaking Tinkerbelle – I…I need you."

There's a pause – two whole stuttering heartbeats of stunned silence and locked gazes – and then he moves back towards her, uncharacteristically tentative in the way his hand reaches out, thumb stroking over her cheek and she moves her hands to his jacket, tugging him closer until their hips bump. His nose nudges hers, eyes slipping shut and when he inclines his head to press his lips to hers – soft and slow and tender – she feels all those little pieces she's been missing since the curse broke slot neatly into place.

.

When Killian kisses Emma – her hands are curled around his jacket, sliding up to cup his neck and she seems to just fit against him – he no longer feels what he's been feeling this whole time, he no longer hears _wrong, wrong, wrong. _

When her hands move away, her arms coming around his neck and she's deepening the kiss, and his arms slide down to curl around her waist, he hears one thing and one thing only – _Emma, Emma, Emma._

* * *

_A/N: I've been wanting to write cused!Killian for ages. Review?_


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